


Calculatory

by Voido



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor is oblivious, Depression, Deviant Connor, Existential Crisis, Gen, Mentions of Character Death, Post-Canon, Shippy only if you squint, but when isn't he ever, mentioned suicial tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voido/pseuds/Voido
Summary: Every single time he is forced to consider or preconstruct the possibility of Lieutenant Anderson’s death during a mission, it slowly drains more and more of Connor’s sanity.Sometimes, he wonders if it is his eternal punishment for deviancy.[currently on hold]





	1. Contradictions

**Author's Note:**

> What is this? Is it yet another fandom I am ridiculously obsessed with? Seems like it!  
> This was originally meant to be a one shot, but I want to do too many things here, so it'll probably be like two or three chapters.
> 
> Oh, and a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Hank. I raise my empty glass of water because I'm too lazy to go and refill it.

It all starts on December 12th, 2038.

Factually, that is a lie, for Connor knows it has started more than a month ago. But judging from a deviant point of view, from his instability claiming the entirety of his clear, focused mind, it’s the first instance where he acknowledges,  _ feels _ it become a problem.

He’s aware of his LED glowing a deep red in the microsecond he sees the suspect reach for his belt, his gun. He’s needed alive, and that’s the only reason Connor doesn’t immediately reach for his own gun to shoot him. It takes him the smallest half of a moment to analyze the situation around him. There’s a counter precisely one meter and eighty-seven centimeters from his position — far enough to result in a bullet grazing his side, close enough to hide before risking any serious damage. There’s absolutely no rational way Connor would risk his intactness by hiding, and the probability for his counterattack being successful bobs somewhere between ninety-four and ninety-five percent.

His programming heavily suggests this solution, sees no other way, in fact. But there are more things in his view to consider, more possibilities to ponder.

Close to the suspect are two officers, both far from even realizing what’s going on. No way would they be able to aim and fire before he could. Their probability of dying if left at the suspect’s mercy stays at a steady one-hundred percent, no doubt about it. They’re too close and he is too angry, too scared.

But none of that phases Connor in the slightest. More than two-thirds of his active perception are focused on one thing alone, and it flashes bright somewhere in the top left corner of his vision, letters shaking instably, alarming him of severe danger.

_ Hank. Probability of survival: 19% _

_ 12% _

_ 17% _

_ 9% _

_ 16% _

It never stops. Then again, it could stop at a solid, extremely promising ninety-nine point nine percent, and Connor would still hardly even  _ consider _ not prioritizing his partner’s life over his own body’s integrity, or even the success of the mission.

After all, Lieutenant Hank Anderson was his main and maybe sole reason for truly turning into what he is now — a deviant, a traitor to his creators and superiors, and, at this point, possibly even one of their worst enemies.

So even though he knows it’s anything but beneficial to their task, or anywhere close to rational, Connor makes his choice in what must look like sheer intuition to everyone else in the room. He reaches for his gun, aims precisely and fires before anyone is even done positioning themselves. The bullet strikes forward quickly, hits right between the suspect’s eyes and throws him backwards before he hits the wall and his body slowly drops to the floor.

The words  _ Mission Failed _ pop into Connor’s view, but he blinks them away and looks over to Hank, who’s already busy getting back up from where he’s jumped to the side to at least try and avoid being hit.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” Connor asks in what he supposes counts as a concerned tone, helping his friend up with ease. Hank grunts, nods and tries to look unphased, but Connor knows he’s thankful. He’s learned a lot in the past month, and Hank’s very contradicting actions and feelings are one of those things.

“Damn, ain’t gonna get anything out of a dead asshole, are we?”

“It is most unfortunate that the suspect had to be eliminated—”

_ That I decided to eliminate him _ , Connor corrects himself. After all, he could have chosen to prioritize the mission over the lives of his colleagues. He simply decided not to, and as much as the thought still confuses him, messes with his software sometimes, he’s grown to accept that.

“Eh, whatever. Saved some lives again, didn’tya? We’ll find another fucker using that shit drug, no doubt about it.”

Connor nods simply and watches Hank move towards the dead suspect. It makes him smile, even if it is as slim and firm as always —  _ like someone glued it to your fucking face _ , as Hank would say — but it’s genuine nonetheless.

He’s failed another mission, sure.

But at least Hank is safe. That’s all that matters to Connor.

 

———————————————————

 

Things get worse around Christmas, and in more ways than one.

While Connor understands the concept of holidays, objectively, they have no further meaning to him, other than to analyze crimes related to them. Maybe that is part of the reason he doesn’t, subjectively, understand why the streets are almost empty, and why there’s hardly anyone working on cases other than emergencies.

That’s not his main problem, though. After all, Connor has been created in order to assist humanity, not rely on it, and he is very well capable of taking care of most things himself — excluding renting half-dressed sex worker androids in questionable clubs, but honestly, he wouldn’t necessarily want to go to such a place on his own either way. Even with all his features, it would be hard to work properly without any backup in a place crowded with both androids and humans.

No. What  _ is  _ his problem, though, is the way his partner looks at him from the sofa, eyebrows furrowed grumpily, way too sugary soda in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He doesn’t seem to have understood the words Connor just said to him.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I should have raised my voice. I think we—”

“Fucking heard you, Connor.”

Still, there’s not even a sign that he  _ plans _ on getting up from his seat, even though Connor is sure that his words should have given more than enough reason to. He’s just received a report about their current suspect possibly having been seen at a motel not too far from them. Even considering he’s probably gone by now, there could still be traces helping them in the investigation.

“Are you absolutely sure, Lieutenant? Your actions strongly contradict my calculated responses to this kind of information.”

“Guess even your perfect android brain makes mistakes, huh? I ain’t in the mood.”

Connor stays unmoving right between Hank and the muted TV, interfering whenever Hank tries to unmute it with the remote — it’s new enough for Connor to interact with it contactlessly. He truly doesn’t understand. This case, everything about it has been something like an obsession to Hank in the last month, or maybe even longer. The fact that he suddenly wants nothing to do with it goes entirely against everything Connor has saved about him in his memory.

“I fail to understand, Lieutenant. We might be able to solve this case if—”

“Didn’tya hear me? I ain’t in the fucking mood.”

It’s short, but not short enough for Connor to miss: Hank frowns, throws a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen, before — still fruitlessly — trying to unmute the TV  _ again _ . Connor keeps blocking the sound while heading for the kitchen to find out what could be the issue here.

There are, yet again, piled up pizza cartons on the table, next to a bottle of Black Lamb and a newspaper that has Connor frown whenever he looks at it — it’s not digital, so he can’t analyze the entirety of it with a single touch. And who even thought it was a good idea to make them so big? He tries his best to find any valuable information in it, anything that could be related to Hank’s sudden shift of mind, but there’s nothing. Nothing about their case, nothing mentionable about its relation to Christmas, not even a good reason not to work during this holiday.

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“I thought this whole mess turned you into a deviant, not a goddamn idiot.”

He swallows, frowns and goes through the information again. A bottle of Black Lamb — usually the reason for Hank not to work, but he is undoubtedly sober at the moment. The newspaper — filled with lots of contradicting and subjectively confusing information, but nothing that would justify acting up.

“For fucks sake, Connor. Turn it over already.”

He blinks, looks over to the living room and reaches for the framed picture that’s lying facedown on the table, turns it around and takes another look at the shyly smiling boy. He’s seen it many times before, and something starts working in him. In human emotions, Connor would most likely describe it as intuition.

“From his birthday on, he wouldn’t stop talking about Christmas.”

He looks up to Hank who’s moved over to the kitchen as well and drops down into one of the chairs, gaze averted, fingers drumming on the now neatly folded newspaper. Connor reads it as nervosity, and he knows he has to choose his words carefully.

“With all due respect, Lieutenant…isn’t that one more reason to find whoever is behind the creation of this drug?”

“Hell, maybe. But you know what, Connor? Not everyone is as fucking rational and controlled as you  _ pretend _ to be. Forgot the times you hesitated? Held yourself back?”

He blinks and thinks back to himself shooting their last suspect a while ago. It was indeed an irrational choice based on  _ feelings _ , as little as Connor understands them. And it’s only been one of many instances as well. He’s chosen Hank’s life over the immediate conversion of the CyberLife androids. He’s chosen Hank’s life over catching Rupert. And while that might make  _ some _ sort of rational sense, considering Hank was his partner, it still doesn’t explain that he spared the Chloe at Kamski’s place, or the Tracis at Eden Club.

“I see.”

He drops the topic, and finds himself unable to pick it up before Christmas finally ends.

_ Holidays are horrible _ , Connor decides subconsciously.

————————————

For some reason, Connor notices, their missions always force him to choose between two evils. It reminds him of Kamski’s words regarding his own deviancy, and the thought leaves a bitter feeling in him. He could probably solve the Red Ice issue in its entirety over the course of mere weeks, if it weren’t for the countless backlashes that his conflicting  _ feelings _ cause.

His mind starts processing again, preconstructing the possible outcomes of his choices. He could reach for his gun and most likely shoot in time, but this time, he can’t help but hesitate, remembering what Hank told him prior to entering the scene.

_ Don’t you dare value any lives in this shitty place over catching this fucker. He’s our best lead yet. Y’hear me, Connor? _

While he’s not necessarily the most well-known android for listening to orders, Hank’s words mean something to him on a personal level, and if avoidable, Connor would prefer not angering him. That, however, is easier said than done, because his choices are between killing the suspect, saving Hank, and risking his own body, his  _ life. _

Connor knows CyberLife won’t send any of his successors if he’s destroyed, if he  _ dies _ .

_ Don’t you dare value any lives— _

Hank’s words repeat themselves in his mind over and over and over.

_ Y’hear me, Connor? _

He knows. If he takes the gun, pulls the trigger, it will help neither of them. They need this lead. Hank needs to put an end to this, Connor needs to finally  _ not _ fail a mission. They need this. He looks over.

_ Hank. Probability of survival: 61% _

_ 59% _

_ 67% _

His mind generates the outcome of the bullet hitting Hank straight in the heart, because that is where Connor sees the gun try to aim. He imagines the body close to his flying back, falling, eyes wide, choked sounds, blood, red blood everywhere.

_ Don’t you dare— _

He considers.

_ Any lives— _

And then Connor decides. It might be the most irrational choice of them all, but he doesn’t let himself think about that. He decides to listen to the order, decides not to value any lives over the success of the mission. He does, however, value one specific life over the others, over his own, charges at the suspect, feels bullets pierce right through his chest. He was right. Were he the same height as Hank, it would have pierced his Thirium pump, but as things are, he’s fine, and it's a little further up. It's fine.  


He’s fine.

They both go down due to the sheer force he puts into his sprint, the gun flies and he manages to hold the furious man down for the few seconds it takes for someone to come and help him. The words Mission Successful pop up in his view, but they’re messy, hardly readable. It confuses Connor. His optical unit wasn’t hit, so why—

“Connor? Connor! Oh, for fucks sake!”

He lets Hank help him up, leans against the nearest wall to support himself. While he physically doesn’t understand the concept of pain, he knows that something is up, that parts of his body aren’t alright. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not exactly nice.

“Holy shit, I thought you were a goner. Why the fuck did you do that, you reckless idiot?! You could’ve died!”

“You said not to value any lives over the mission, Lieutenant. I simply followed your—”

“Bullshit. Since when do you ever listen to what the fuck I say? Gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

Connor frowns and analyzes Hank’s physical condition.

“Your heartbeat is quite irregular, but I do not detect any signs of a heart attack—”

“Shut the hell up. Let’s go take care of that wound.”

There’s anger on Hank’s face. Disappointment. Connor doesn’t like it, so he tries to smile it away, tries to prove that he’s alright. After all, he can’t even feel the pain.

“The probability of my integrity was at a very high percentage level.”

_ Lies. It was far lower than Hank’s probability of survival. _

“I’d say the outcome was worth a little damage to this body.”

He doesn’t get an answer, and considering the look Hank gives him before turning on his heel to leave the rest to the others, Connor decides it’s better like that.


	2. Reminders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while, but here it is!!  
> Quick reminder Connor is my boy and I love him with all my heart. Thanks for your attention.

Things keep changing, and with time passing by mercilessly, Connor can’t say if it’s for the better or the worse. For every step forward in their investigation, it feels like he takes two back on a personal level. Whenever a mission is successful, he feels people staring at him judgmentally. They say things like  _ you shouldn't have risked so much _ or  _ you could have died _ . And no matter how hard he tries, they don't understand that he doesn't have a choice. After all, his only alternative is to fail the mission - something he knows is very common in human investigations, if it means saving the lives of the officers. But he isn't human, and as much as he acknowledges himself as more than a machine these days, he still believes that if he were to die in order to accomplish something big, then it would very well be worth it.

January 29th 2039 is another extremely difficult day in this regard. They have just managed to catch another suspect regarding the distribution and circulation of Red Ice. A dealer, of sorts. It wasn't much of a surprise to find him armed, and to Connor, it only made sense to try and dodge the bullets coming at him over shooting the suspect.

"You alright there, Connor?"

It's Chris Miller, still aiming his automatic at the brute-looking man who tries to fight against the two officers cuffing and holding him in place. Officer Miller looks calm, but there's a faint inch of worry on his face. From all Connor knows, he's too kind a person for his own good, so that only makes sense.

"I'm alright. None of my vital biocomponents were hit."

He inspects the wound next to his optical unit with steady fingers, tests his body's integrity and the amount of Thirium-loss - it's not too bad, but he can definitely feel it affect his stability, knows that his software will soon urge him to change into standby-mode to preserve energy. He presses his other hand against the wound on his torso. There's no pain, he doesn't know how to feel pain, but he can't deny the uncertainty entering his system. It's something he has only started experiencing in the weeks and months after becoming more and more aware of himself.

"Let's get you the hell outta here. C'mon."

He lets Hank help him up with ease, uses his left arm to support himself on the Lieutenant's shoulders, and keeps pressing his right hand onto the damage, the  _ wound. _

"It's weird, Lieutenant," Connor starts, voice quieter than he planned. Hank only makes a questioning sound to encourage him to go on, but for some reason, Connor feels himself hesitating.

He isn't even sure what he wants to say, but he tries anyway.

"The concept of anxiety is something I only know in a theoretical way. It is a sign of great displeasure and uncertainty in humans, animals and, to a certain degree, even plants. Lately, however, there is a sort of sensation inside me that appears to be highly similar to-"

"Don't gimme that shitty android talk. Just spill your mind."

He takes a deep breath that he doesn't need, closes his eyes for comfort that he doesn't understand. He frowns, as if he _ actually _ had to think about the words.

"The idea of dying makes me very uncomfortable.”

They come to a halt, although Connor doesn't sense any logical reason for it. There's nothing in their way, no one asking them to stop, no false direction that should cause them to turn around and head elsewhere.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks carefully, tries to read Hank's expression, but it's not easy. He looks displeased, sure, but that isn't necessarily anything new.

"No," he answers wearily, frowns and shakes his head. But then, there's the hint of a smile on his lips, he grabs a little tighter around Connor's middle, making sure not to get close to the wound even though he knows it wouldn't hurt, and keeps moving.

"You said the exact right thing."

Connor doesn't understand, but even with intense glaring, asking and trying to be as pungent as he's able to, he doesn't get an answer, so he uploads it to his internal folder of important things to keep in mind, and decides to try again later, when he's not busy trying to keep his body from shutting down for the sake of energy preservation.

————————————

Things don't go as planned during their next few missions.

That itself might not be too surprising. They get hurt more often than not, they lose their suspect in one way or another more often than not.

According to Captain Fowler, it's  _ bound to happen with missions so dangerous. _

According to Detective Reed, it's  _ bound to happen if you're stuck with a good-for-nothing like Anderson. _

Connor likes neither of those statements. He keeps his opinion to himself when it comes to Reed, simply because he doesn't deem it worth the time, knowing that it's all just petty talk without much actual mean will behind it.

He does, however, question Fowler’s words.  _ Missions so dangerous _ is a concept that’s still new to Connor. He understands the severity of some cases, understands that lives depend on him and his colleagues, understands that sometimes, you need to take damage in order to accomplish a task.

Yet even so, it gets harder time after time. 

Ever since his last major accident throwing him into an anxious moment of shock, having him realize just how thin the line between living and dying can be, something has changed inside him. He is more cautious, more self-aware, more careful. At the same time, his actions are more perceptive, more emotional, more contradictory to his mission.

It wears him out slowly, failing mission after mission, being overrun with the need to check his software for errors. He doesn’t understand why exactly he acts the way he does. All he knows is that something inside him prefers a failed mission but content Hank over a successful mission and grumpy Hank, no matter how immensely it goes against his initial programming.

“We’re not making much progress lately,” he states the obvious one evening, his hand resting in Sumo’s fur motionlessly, ignoring the dog’s whimpering pleas to be pet. Connor doesn’t explain any further, doesn’t even elaborate on what exactly he’s talking about, although he is certainly aware of the fact that there’s more than one possible interpretation of his words.

_ It doesn’t really matter _ , he thinks.  _ They all apply. _

“Ya think?”

Hank is switching through channels on TV, stopping shortly whenever a news report comes on, but eventually abandoning them for some sort of visibly faked, predictable talk show, which Connor knows are made for entertainment purposes only. The level of entertainment they seemingly depict, though, is far out of his processable capability, so he doesn’t try. Part of him wants to shut down the volume, as he usually does with these kinds of confusing things, but the sound seems to work as white noise for Hank, so Connor decides to do nothing about it.

He stares, instead. 

Stares at the way Hank frowns at the TV tiredly, stares at the way he reaches for his phone and takes two tries to tap on the correct application to read his emails, stares at the way his eyes dare to fall shut here on the spot.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I wasn’t being very considerate. You should probably rest before we discuss the future of our plans. The past weeks have been outstandingly exhausting.”

As a special prototype with advanced functions in both working capacities as well as energy preservation, exhaustion is a highly foreign concept for Connor. For all the power he has to use during the days, he has way too many hours to refill it at night. Having to take occasional breaks isn’t something he subjectively understands, but he knows it’s necessary for humans, and even other androids.

Yet for some reason, Hank doesn’t seem to take his advice too well — his heart rate increases by the same amount it  _ always _ does when he’s angered; not furious, but far from happy. It sometimes happens when Detective Reed throws exceptionally rude comments towards Connor, or when Captain Fowler assigns them another dangerous mission right after a maintenance.

If Connor had to pigeonhole it, he would give it the category  _ Misguided Worry. _

Misguided worry over believing Connor cares about Reed’s comments.

Misguided worry over believing Connor needs any physical breaks after maintenance.

Maybe that’s why the reaction itself is so foreign to him in this situation. There’s no one sending them on any missions around, there’s no one insulting them, their pasts or their ways of working.

There’s no logical reason for Hank to glare as if he were ready to pick a fight. Knowing him, he  _ is _ more than ready to.

“All this shit means nothin’ to ya, does it, Connor?”

He isn’t sure what the question exactly refers to, and Hank doesn’t give him the time to process all the possibilities and determine which one is most likely to be correct.

“You see people die every fucking day. Be it on TV, as part of the investigation,  _ everywhere _ . And yet here you sit, as if the world could end around you, and you wouldn’t have a single fuck to spare, huh?”

He gets up and paces around. His words are angrier than his body language, so Connor supposes that these words are not what Hank meant to say to him. The way he shakes his head, takes deep, annoyed breaths and wanders through the room aimlessly only reinforces this conclusion.

“Lieutenant, I must remind you that I wasn’t build to sympathize with humans based on personal emotions.”

He keeps it to himself, but saying the words is unexpectedly hard; according to the data he has about human emotions, it seems to be  _ uncertainty _ that stops him. If in any way possible, he doesn’t want Hank to be even angrier with him.

“Is that your fancy way of sayin’  _ yes, you’re right. I don’t give a shit _ ?”

“No, that’s not—”

He grabs into the fabric of the armrest just enough to notice his own calmness vanishing. Fighting with Hank isn’t news, so why does it throw Connor off guard now? It hasn’t happened in a while, so he figures that his systems need unexpectedly long to respond correctly.

Connor  _ wants _ to believe it’s the sole reason he looks away, blinks rapidly and tries to come up with the right answer. Something inside him screams that there is none — a thing he learned from Markus a while ago. Sure, there’s most likely an answer Hank would prefer hearing over others, but if it’s something Connor doesn’t eventually live up to, then that’s going to complicate their situation even further.

_ The only right answer is the one that you feel, not the one you predict. _

He thoroughly dislikes the incalculability of that, but he has learned that in order to actually  _ live _ , you sometimes need to allow yourself failure, as long as it means being yourself.

So instead of saying what Hank wants to hear, Connor thinks. About the past weeks, about the whole investigation, every mission, every suspect, every single time either of them got hurt or even almost died. He notices something between worry and pain, but he’s physically unharmed, so that makes no logical sense. It’s irrational — an emotion, something he has absolutely no control over.

It scares him.

And because Hank still looks at him expectantly, waits for an answer, grows impatient on the spot, Connor doesn’t allow himself to think about it further before almost blurting it out:

“I’m scared.”

There’s a short, but high pitch in his voice, underlining how much the words surprise himself. He’s heard that saying one’s feelings out loud is supposed to help coping with them, but so far, he can’t really attest to that. From all he’s able to analyze on the spot, the loss of control feels  _ numbing _ . He wants to hide, even though he has no idea from what or whom.

For just a moment, it looks like the words make Hank even angrier — as if he expects them to be a lie, something just thrown at him so he leaves it be. But then he visibly realizes that Connor is serious, and his expression softens considerably before he sits back down on the sofa as well, subconsciously reaching out for Sumo who walks over to him excitedly.

“You’re...scared? Of what?”

It’s genuine interest. Connor knows that. It’s one of those questions Hank would ask to  _ try _ and get him to grow a little more self-awareness, a little more  _ personality _ . But if Connor knew what scares him, he wouldn’t be so  _ shocked _ about it, would he? Instead of answering, he shakes his head, looks down to his hands as if the answer were encrypted on them, and thinks.

What  _ is _ he scared of?

He definitely knows he has grown more conscious of the idea of death. Whenever he feels bullets piercing his body these days, he doesn’t think about being destroyed — he thinks about  _ dying _ , about losing access to life, to himself, to his work and to the people he cares about. It’s a slow process, but he knows it’s happening. The concept of losing others worries him as well. He remembers every time Hank was wounded or could have died if not for Connor himself intervening. 

There’s New Year’s Eve, where Hank seemed dangerously tempted to try another round of russian roulette, and Connor is aware that his own presence alone might be the sole reason nothing life-threatening happened that night.

He’s scared of losing the only friend he ever had. It reminds him too much of his very first mission, of Daniel murdering senselessly because of how lost he felt.

There’s all their missions where he’s the one mainly responsible for making sure no one gets harmed unless absolutely necessary. With the deviancy partly de-rationalizing his choices and decisions, it’s even harder for him to make the best choice in a short time, and he knows that he regularly chooses his partner’s life over their desperately needed success.

He’s scared of failing his mission. It reminds him too much of the pressure of decommission, of knowing how little time he used to have left before being destroyed after every single failure.

And then there’s this, just the two of them in the place they call home, the place that should be a safe haven to rest instead of fighting. Belonging here was one of Connor’s first ever deliberate choices in his free life, and he hasn’t regretted it ever since, and he doesn’t think he ever will. Yet, the feeling is the same.

He’s scared of losing Hank. 

Irrationally, but almost  _suffocatingly_ scared. Of losing the person helping him find out how to live, of losing his partner, of losing the only consistent part of his short life ever since he was activated. Hank is like a lifeline to him, a reason to try even at times where the whole rest of the world suggests not to.

Connor knows uncertainty is an inevitable part of life. The future is always something you can try to predict, but never with absolute guarantee of it playing out that exact way. And maybe the entire concept of moving forward in a world in which he was never supposed to exist freely is what frightens him the most.

Voice thin, arms resting on his knees and eyes fixed on Hank’s as if he owes him that, Connor speaks up:

“I’m scared of the future.”


End file.
